She knelt beside him and touched her hand to his forehead-the skin was hot with fever. She took him by the shoulder and shook him gently. There was no response. She shook him again, harder this time, and called his name. The prince slept on.
She was shaking him a third time, and calling his name, when Rognvald arrived. He ducked in, regarded the sleeping prince, and said, 'Here, let us carry him outside where we can look at him properly.'
'A moment, my lord,' suggested Halhuli. He gestured to the two servants standing with him. Taking the lower edge of the tent, they unfastened the stays from the pegs and peeled back the heavy fabric, rolling it up and over the hoops. When they had finished, he ordered them to make up the fire so the prince would not grow cold.
'Open his robe,' said Cait.
Rognvald knelt beside Cait and parted the prince's robe to reveal a small red puncture in the fleshy part of the upper chest. The skin was raised and discoloured around the cut. 'He was struck by an arrow,' she said. 'I saw him brush it off.'
Rognvald pressed his fingers lightly to the wound and examined it closely. 'There was little issue of blood,' he said, sitting back on his heels. 'I have seen men endure much more and fight all the harder the next day.'
'Do you think the arrow was poisoned?' said Yngvar. He and the other knights had gathered around the stricken prince.
'Do they do such things?' wondered Cait.
'We have seen it at Bosra,' Svein assured her. 'In Horns they did this also.'
'The dogs,' spat Dag.
'Alas,' confirmed Halhuli, 'it has been known.' He placed a hand on the prince's chest. 'The skin is hot and inflamed. I think we must suspect poison.'
'The wound is not so deep,' Rognvald pointed out. 'Perhaps the poison is not of sufficient strength to kill. Could we get him back to the palace, do you think?'
Halhuli, worried, his face ashen, gazed at his lord. 'It is as Allah wills. If he is to die, then it will be. If he is to recover, then that, also, will be. Allah, the Merciful, bends all purposes to his own.'
'What do you want to do, Halhuli?' asked Cait. 'Do you want us to take him home?'
He nodded. 'I should like to try.'
'We can make a litter for him,' volunteered Yngvar.
'And drag the poor man over mountain and valley?' said Svein, outraged at the idea.
'It might be carried between two horses,' suggested Dag, 'but a sling would be better.'
'Aye,' said Svein, 'a sling would be better.' He turned up his nose at Yngvar. 'A litter! Teh!'
'Cut two stout branches,' Rognvald ordered, 'and lash them to the cantles of the saddles. We will fashion a sling.'
The knights attended to this, and the others set about striking camp. In the midst of their activity, Prince Hasan awoke. Cait turned her back on him for a moment, and when she turned around he was sitting up, taking in the bustle around him with a slightly bewildered expression. 'Are we attacked?' he asked.
'No,' replied Cait. 'You have been asleep. We could not wake you, so we are preparing to return to Al-Jelal.'
'There is no need,' replied Hasan. 'I am perfectly able to ride. We must not abandon the search on my account.'
Cait regarded him doubtfully. 'You have been wounded,' she explained. 'I do think it best to return to the palace.'
'Nonsense!' he scoffed, and made to rise.
The effort made him dizzy; he lurched forward and Caitriona caught him. 'Sit down,' she told him. 'Rest a moment.'
The prince collapsed on his bed once more. 'Ah, perhaps you are right,' he said. He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to the side of his head.
'Here, drink a little,' she said, pouring water into his horn cup; his hand shook so much as he lifted it to his mouth, that she had to steady his arm.
'Allah, the Merciful, be praised!' exclaimed Halhuli, rushing up. 'You are awake, my lord.'
'Bring me my clothes. We are going home.'
'At once, my lord,' he said, and hurried away.
Cait called for Rognvald, who returned a moment later to find Prince Hasan drawing on the clothes Halhuli held out for him. 'He tells us he feels well enough to ride,' Cait said. 'Do you think it wise?'
Rognvald squatted down and regarded the prince. 'I have no wisdom in the matter,' he answered at last. 'If a man feels he is able to ride, who can say otherwise?'
'Precisely,' agreed the prince. Indicating the wounded Paulo's tent, he said, 'Your man needs warmth and care, which he will not receive on the trail. If we leave now, we can reach the palace before dark.'
'That would be best in any case,' Rognvald conceded. 'We will make the journey as easy as possible.' He stood and called to the knights to prepare the sling for Paulo and ready the prince's horse. 'Those of us who are ready will leave at once-the rest can come after and catch up on the way.'
'No, my friend,' Hasan objected. 'Your destination is within sight. I will not allow you to abandon the search now. Halhuli and my servants will attend me. The rest of you must go on.'
Cait hesitated. While she had no great hankering to resume the search, the thought of going back to Al-Jelal only to take up the trail another day filled her with an even greater dread. 'But what if something should happen on the way?' she protested mildly.
'Listen to me, Ketmia,' the prince replied. 'At all events, we would be forced to return to the palace in a day or two for supplies. Take the provisions and go on ahead.'
'He is right,' Rognvald concluded. 'If Abu was not mistaken, we are closer now than ever before. We dare not allow this chance to slip away-we may not get another.'
'Paulo and I will rejoin you in a few days when we have rested and our wounds have healed.'
'Unless we find Alethea first,' Rognvald put in.
'Of course!' declared Hasan. 'You see? Find Alethea and bring her to the palace.'
'Very well,' Cait relented.
Thus it was agreed. The final preparations were quickly made; despite his feeble protests, Paulo was placed in the sling, and the prince, holding himself like a man who feared one false step would shatter his legs, walked to his mount. With Rognvald on one side and his faithful katib on the other, Hasan climbed into the saddle. 'I will see you in a few days,' he called as they started off. 'Farewell, my friends.'
Cait and the others watched until the prince and his entourage were out of sight. 'Do not worry, my lady,' said Yngvar, trying to comfort her. 'They will reach the palace, never fear.'
'Aye,' said Svein, 'providing they do not meet up with any of your wolves.'
The wind grew colder as the day wore on. They spent much of the morning skirting Ali Waqqar's valley lair, and stopped to break fast once they had put the valley behind them. While they were eating, it began to snow. The mountain Abu had indicated lay directly ahead-no more than a half-day's ride by their best estimation-so they pressed on.
The snow persisted through the day, drifting down through the tall pines in great, silent feathery clumps, concealing both the path and the mountain before them in a soft layer of white, and covering the heads and shoulders of the knights, and the rumps of their horses. But they rode on, climbing higher and higher into the gently swirling curtain of flakes.
Yngvar was leading the way when Cait saw him stop at the crest of the hill. She lifted the reins and urged her mount to a trot, and came abreast of him. The slope of the hill dropped away to form a the rim of a bowl-shaped valley. There below them, in the centre of the bowl, lay a lake, its surface smooth and dark as polished jet. At the far side of the valley rose the mountain, not golden now, but brooding and dark, its top obscured by the clouds, its lower slopes covered with a dense forest of pine-each bough of every tree now bending beneath the heavy weight of snow.
'This is the place,' said Cait, hardly daring to speak aloud for fear that it would vanish mysteriously, leaving them no closer than before.
'Maybe we will not have to sleep in tents tonight,' Yngvar said, pointing away across the valley to the far side of the lake.
Cait looked w
here he indicated and saw a cluster of buildings and a few enclosures for cattle-little more than a smoke-grey smudge in a field of white. She turned and called behind her to Rognvald and the others who were just coming up to the crest of the hill. 'There is a settlement!'
Without waiting for the others, Cait started down into the valley, keeping her eye on the tiny village which was already fading into the gloom of twilight. She had reached the side of the lake and started around when Rognvald caught her. 'Do you think Alethea is there?'
'I pray she is,' Cait replied. 'But I hardly dare believe it might be true.'
'Then I will believe it for both of us,' replied Rognvald.
'Do you never grow tired?' she asked.
'Tired of the trail?'
'Tired of the search-the endless riding and riding, always searching, never finding. The futility of it all… I am weary to the bone with it and I would to God it were over. One way or another, I wish it would just end.' She looked at his face, a pale softness in the winter gloaming, unmoved by her sudden outpouring of despair. 'I suppose now you despise me for being a weak and flighty woman.'
'My lady,' he said, his voice low. He did not turn his eyes from the snow-covered trail ahead. 'You are the most stalwart woman I know.'
That was all he said, and they spoke no more. But it gave Cait a warm feeling that lasted long into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It was dark and the snow was deep by the time they reached the settlement. If not for the faint glow of light from the windows of several of the houses, they would have been lost in the snowy void of night. Rognvald halted a few dozen paces from the nearest dwelling: a low hovel built of turf and timber and thatched with tight-bundled reeds from the lake.
There was a small window covered with oiled sheepskin and set deep under the drooping eaves. A fine ruddy glow showed in the window and under the edge of the rough door. 'It is a cow-byre,' said Dag, regarding the rustic house. 'But there is a fire, at least.' The others remarked that they did not care if it was a hole in the ground so long as it was a dry hole.
'Let us see if they are of a mind to receive us,' said Cait, and Rognvald dismounted and walked to the house. He stooped to the door and rapped on the planking. He waited, rapped again, and called out.
When nothing happened, he pulled the leather strap which lifted the wooden latch, pushed open the door, and looked inside. Warm golden light spilled out on to the snow, making the new whiteness glisten like fine samite.
'There is no one here,' he reported to the others who sat looking on.
'Do you think they saw us coming and have gone into hiding?' said Yngvar.
'He would be a blind man who saw you coming and did not hide,' replied Svein.
'Listen,' said Rognvald, holding up his hand for silence.
From somewhere in the village there came the distant, bell-like sound of voices lifted in song. The words seemed to come drifting down out of the sky with the falling snow-as if angels were singing, the notes clear and ringing in the softly silent air. Cait listened to the slow, majestic strains and her breath caught in her throat: it was a song she had sung at home in Caithness every Yuletide since she was old enough to remember the words.
The realization brought tears to her eyes; before she knew it they were running freely down her cheeks. Here, she thought, in this place. How could it be? Quickly, lest the others see her, she rubbed them away with the backs of her hands.
'Do you hear?' said Rognvald.
'It cannot be Latin,' said Svein. 'Or Arabic.'
'And it is not Danish or Norwegian,' added Yngvar.
'Nor Spanish, I think,' offered Dag, none too certain. Rodrigo shook his head.
'No,' Cait told them, 'it is Gaelic.'
'You know it, my lady?' asked Svein.
'I know it well.' She raised her face to the falling snow and sang:
'lompaim siar go dti Goiroias,
an Chathair Tintri,
Dun an tSolais,
Dun Gleadhrach Gloir,
Dun Feasa,
Baile don Tiarna loldanach…'
Her voice, gentle and melodious in the snow-smothered silence, wrought a magical change in the knights. They stared at Cait with rapt, almost ecstatic expressions of amazement-as if she had suddenly sprouted wings.
'What does it mean?' asked Rognvald when she finished.
'It is an old invocation,' she replied. 'It means:
I am turning towards the West,
towards Goirais, the Fiery City,
Fortress of Light,
Fortress of Blazing Glory,
Fortress of Wisdom,
Home of the Many-Gifted Lord…'
She broke off suddenly, aware of the wondering stares of the knights. 'It is part of a Yuletide ritual performed by the Cele De,' she explained.
'Yuletide,' remarked Svein. 'Can it be the Christ Mass?'
'This way,' Dag said, starting off along the path leading into the settlement. The others followed, and they shortly arrived at a small village green. At the end of the green was an odd round building of rough mountain stone. Larger than any of the surrounding houses and barns, it was roofed with turf, and topped by a wooden cross. A round window above the chapel door allowed light to stream out into the darkness-along with the clear, poignant strains of the song the congregation was singing.
The knights, so rapt in their fascination with the song, remained motionless in their saddles, listening as the last notes of the graceful melody faded away.
'If it is the Christ Mass,' said Yngvar, breaking the silence at last. 'Let us go in and join the celebration.'
Svein and Dag were out of the saddle and hurrying towards the door before he finished speaking. Rodrigo and Yngvar followed. 'Lady,' said Rognvald, 'it seems we are going to church.'
'So it seems, my lord, and not before time.'
As they dismounted, the congregation inside the chapel began singing again. Recognition caused Cait's heart to beat faster; she halted in midstep to listen.
'A Fionnghil,
A Lonraigh,
A Feasaigh… Tiana anocht… Tiana, Naofa Leanbh, anocht
Seeing Cait had stopped, Rognvald turned and heard her repeating the words of the song. 'O Bright One, O Radiant One, O Knowing One… Come tonight… Come, Holy Child, tonight…' she said, translating the words for him.
The tall knight smiled with genuine pleasure then nodded to Dag to proceed.
Dag pushed open the door of the chapel and stepped inside, with Yngvar, Rodrigo and Svein close on his heels. The singing stopped instantly. Cait and Rognvald entered to find the villagers gaping in amazement at the snow-covered, half-frozen knights-as if at the Wise Kings appearing fresh from the Judaean hills on their fateful journey.
The chapel blazed with the light of hundreds of candles, and, in the centre of the timber floor, a large bronze bowl filled with glowing embers. Before this glowing bowl stood a priest in robes of undyed wool, his hands still raised in supplication, his mouth open, the song fresh on his lips.
At Cait's appearance, the priest lowered his hands. He spoke a few words in a language Cait did not know. 'Pax vobiscum,' she offered by way of reply. Stepping forward, she quickly searched the congregation for her sister, but did not see her and realized, with a pang of disappointment, that if Alethea were here, she would have made herself known by now.
'Pax vobiscum' the priest answered excitedly. 'Pax vobiscum! Gloria in excelsis Deo? He moved quickly around the burning bowl and came to stand before Cait. 'Lady of the Blessed Night,' he said in curiously accented Latin, 'I greet you with a holy kiss.' Seizing both her hands in his, he raised them to his lips and kissed them, then led her by the hand into the centre of the round chapel.
This caused a hushed sensation among the villagers-a group of fewer than seventy souls, young and old; the people gawked and murmured over their priest and the strange woman. Cait glanced around at the ring of watching faces once more in the forlorn hope that Alethea might yet
be found among them-perhaps overcome by the sudden appearance of her sister and unable to step forward.
Meanwhile, the priest turned to the knights. 'Welcome, friends,' he exclaimed, pulling Cait with him to the bright burning bowl. 'Come in! Come in! Close the door and warm yourselves by the fire.'
'Please,' Cait said, turning to the priest at last, 'we had no wish to disturb your service. We heard the singing, and thought merely to join you in your observance.'
'But you have disturbed us,' replied the priest. 'Even so, we welcome the disturbance, for it is an honour to entertain visitors on this most holy of all nights.'
'Is it the Christ Mass?'
'It is, daughter,' answered the priest. He regarded her with a bemused expression. Now that she saw him better, Cait decided the priest was not so young as she had first thought him. Indeed, he was, she surmised, as old as Abbot Padraig-if not older. Yet his deportment and demeanour were those of a man half his age.
'Then, by all means, continue with your songs and prayers,' she said. 'We would be pleased to listen.'
The priest assented, and turning to his congregation, raised his hands once more. He called them to attention, and began singing again; gradually, the people resumed their songs and prayers-if somewhat self-consciously now for the presence of the strangers in their midst.
They were, Cait observed, a small, sturdy people, short-limbed and thick-set, with broad, handsome faces. It was the eyes, she decided, that gave them such an unusual appearance-large and dark, set deep above prominent cheekbones either side of their fine straight noses, and each and every one gleaming with quick curiosity and humour. The old Orkneyingar told of the little dark people who had inhabited the islands long before the coming of the tall-folk. She wondered if the people of this strange, hidden place could belong to a similar race.
As the Christ Mass followed its hallowed sequence, Cait was moved by the extraordinary peculiarity of what she was hearing-to be so far from home, yet listening to people sing the old familiar songs in the same familiar accents. She closed her eyes; with the voices filling her ears, she was once again back in Caithness-as she remembered it a long time ago. She was sitting in her grandmother Ragna's lap in the church her grandfather Murdo had built, surrounded by men and women of the settlement, and important guests and visitors. The monks of the nearby monastery were singing, their voices creating dizzying patterns as they rose, swirling and soaring up to the cold, clear star-dusted heaven on the holiest night of the year.
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